


Sollux Makes Bad Decisions, the Novel

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Belly Rubs, Couch Cuddles, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Schmoop, Stomach Ache, Vaginal Fingering, [Nook Fingering Technically]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 13:05:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4707035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Spoilers: It's not really a novel]</p><p>“Fix it,” he demands, pouting, his fists curling in the fabric of your shirt, his horns headbutting your book out of the way, “Hurts.”</p><p>“Of course it hurts, you chugged six cans of that horrid fuckin’ energy drink in two hours,” you chide, but you set aside your book anyways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sollux Makes Bad Decisions, the Novel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [roundandtalented](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roundandtalented/gifts), [bunlux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunlux/gifts).



> Because I'm an enabler.

You’re reading when you first hear it.

 

You aren’t deaf, after all, and you’d need to be in order to miss the groaning coming from the bedroom; at first you think Sollux must be having a bit of alone time with himself, without you, and you feel slightly jilted, but then you hear him whine and roll around and you’d told him to stop at three, but he’d ignored you. Well, now look who’s utterly miserable.

 

You begin to count. At precisely ten seconds after the initial moaning fit, he comes wandering out of your room, hair a mess and glasses missing, wearing nothing but your shirt, which hangs like a sail from his small frame. He’s gorgeous like this, even mussed from sleep with a bit of translucent yellow drool on his cheek; the only thing you currently dislike about his appearance is the look of pain on his round face.

 

“I told you,” you say, and he scoffs at you, turning his head away even as he clambers up into your lap; you have more than enough space for him, his body small compared to your own broad frame, your last molt having been rather generous in the height department and his… not so much. You had grown a good two feet and gained about a hundred pounds of sheer muscle; he had seemingly shrunk three inches and widened by about five, his hips round and curved against the palm you place on his waist to keep him steady as he climbs you like a tree.

 

“Fix it,” he demands, pouting, his fists curling in the fabric of your shirt, his horns headbutting your book out of the way, “Hurts.”

 

“Of course it hurts, you chugged six cans of that horrid fuckin’ energy drink in two hours,” you chide, but you set aside your book anyways, reaching out to adjust him as you see fit; he’s almost like a doll, in this manner, allowing you to move him about and position you exactly how you want, laying him out across the couch with his upper body resting on your lap.

 

“Make it go away,” he whines, his voice dragging the last syllable out long enough to loop back around into infinity; to shut him up, you bend at the waist and kiss him, cupping his cheek in one hand as the other pushes up the fabric of his shirt- or, rather, your shirt, the violet zigzags slashing brightly across the black background.

 

He’s not wearing anything underneath, of course- pants seem to be anathema to your strange little lover, and you usually don't mind, but sometimes he forgets to put them on when in polite company an that's just fuckin’ embarrassing.

 

“Poor thing,” you coo, your lips brushing against his, your hand curling up to comb through his hair, “Too bad for you, Sol. You know what this means.”

 

His glowing eyes widen, and he glances down at his stomach, then back at you with a whine, ragged teeth digging into his lip. You are evil enough to withhold tummy rubs for the sake of getting him to admit defeat; you doubt he can handle living without them in order to avoid that.

It’s all for his health, anyways- you’d told him he was gonna make himself sick, eating like this, but no, he’d laughed you off. He said if he wanted your help, he’d come crawling back to you but until then, you could shove your incessant lususing up your ass and let me fish it out with my tongue when I need it. Vulgar little shit.

 

Well, look who’s crawling back to you now.

 

You’d let him know that if he wanted your help with any of his self inflicted stupidity, then he was going to have to suck it up and learn to eat by your rules; meat and fish and protein, fruits, vegetables, natural sugars. High energy diet for a high energy psion. You’d find a way to cram healthy food down his throat if it’s the last thing you ever do- now, what remains to be seen is if your lover’s pride is strong enough to temper the pain of his bellyache.

 

Apparently not, since he crumbles in mere moments.

 

“Fiiine,” he whines, wriggling around on his back, his hands up and smushing against your grinning mouth, “I’ll eat whatever the fuck you want, just stop smirking and make it go away.”

 

“Good boy,” you murmur, and he goes all red in the face, turning his head to the side as if to pretend you don’t exist, even as both hands slide down over his chest to his stomach; it’s conveniently bare, as is everything below the waist and really anything that isn’t covered by your shirt.

 

“I don’t understand your fuckin’ moral objection to wearin’ a pair’a boxers or somethin’,” you say, pressing your palms against his stomach; it’s tight and hot against your hands, and you sigh, starting to rub in little circles as he tenses and whines again, arching into your touch.

 

“It’s not like you mind,” he grumbles, wincing whenever you press too hard; you try to avoid doing that but it’s a bit difficult, especially with all his squirming.

 

Soon enough, though, he relaxes, and you can start massaging his stomach in earnest, kneading it softly as you rub your hands over his slightly distended gut; you didn’t even know he had enough room for six fucking energy drinks, but hell, apparently he can cram it away with the best of them.

 

You rub your hands from the top of his chest all the way down to where his hips flare out, your fingers smoothing circles into every inch of skin as you sooth away the ache in his gut. An appreciative groan slips from his lips and he arches into your touch, eyes fluttering shut; the soft glow of them stains the skin of his eyelids, and you can’t help but bend down to kiss each one.

 

“Firefly,” you tease, and he sparks at you, zapping the curve of your lightning bolt horns; your fingers dip to tease the slit between his legs in retaliation and he gasps, his claws digging into your knee.

 

“Fuck,” he whimpers, so sensitive; you’re not blind, you’d noticed him start to drip once your hands began to knead at the top of his hips, but you hadn’t thought he was this turned on already. His nook starts to dilate as his legs spread for you, the tip of his bulge pressing out from his sheath; he’s fucking gorgeous and you tell him so, your own sharp teeth pricking your lip as you look down at him, your free hand still rubbing over the curve of his stomach.

 

“Just relax.”

 

You rub over the base of his bulge with your thumb, index finger stroking along the length of his slit; your lips press against his as you shift from his eyes to his mouth, kissing him deep. He moans into your mouth, needy and wanton already, desperate, and you just smile into the contact and tease him a bit more, coaxing more genetic material from his willing body till his thighs are streaked sticky yellow with it and he’s begging, though admittedly only through body language.

 

This is calm, though, slow; you don’t want to rush him, you don’t this to go too fast because he’s sick, really, that’s why he’d come to curl in your lap in the first place. The least you could do is treat him precious for a while, even if that normally annoys the shit out of him.

 

“You’re fuckin’ perfect, Sol,” you mumble against his lips, and he arches and bucks his hips down and you take mercy on him; his bulges twine and layer over themselves as they wrap around your wrist, and you slip two fingers into him, spreading them wide as he moans into your mouth.

 

One hand rubs soothing patterns into the rounded skin of his tummy, the other thrusts two fingers into his sopping wet nook, slow and steady, curling just a bit. You continue to mumble to him, tell him how pretty he is, how much you love him, how much you love doing this to him, reducing him to this- this messy, overwhelmed puddle of drooling troll on your lap, limp and content to just sit still and let you do all the work.

 

He’s lazy, but you don’t mind; you know his body works far harder to support his psionics than you could ever hope to work in your lifetime. That’s why you want to take care of him, not just sit back and watch as he wastes away gorging on empty calories. That shit does nothing, just passes straight through his body without giving him any energy, anything he can use to sustain himself; it makes you want to curl around him and feed him your protein shakes and make sure he never has to do anything but fuck and feel good about himself ever again.

 

It’s a hopeless want- Sollux is an independent individual, and would hate to be caged in such a manner- but maybe he wouldn’t mind being coddled just a little bit.

 

He certainly doesn’t seem to mind right now, eyes half shut, body rolling slowly against your fingers, breath slightly fast and hands clenching in the fabric of your pants, mouth quirked in a hazy smile as drool drips from his mouth; he’s always messy, when it comes to sex, but the wet stain on your pants from his slobber still makes you grimace, even as you thrust your fingers in sharply and curl them, pressing against the front wall of his nook.

 

“Come for me,” you say, forcefully; he glances up at you with a look of futile defiance on his face, almost like he’s contemplating holding back now just because you told him what to do, the little shit. Still, with your fingers rubbing against the internal sensory tissue of his nook, right by his seedflap, and the palm you still have caressing his stomach, he can’t resist; he’s coming in seconds, letting out a loud, satisfied moan before going limp in your lap, the space between his legs a mess.

 

You spend a few moments curling and wiggling your fingers slowly, dragging out his orgasm as he continues to pant and writhe against you, but when his bulge retracts and he starts to whine, you pull your hand away, bringing your fingers to your mouth to clean away his slurry with your tongue.

 

“Messy,” you mutter, frowning down at your ruined couch cushion; he just snorts and rolls onto his side, butting his head up against your broad chest as he curls in your lap, sated and content.

 

“Should I put you back t’ coon, now?”

 

Nothing but a lazy purr, the other’s eyes already heavy lidded; you roll your own eyes and scoop him up into your arms, and he hardly stirs, moving just enough to tuck his face into the crook of your shoulder. He breathes deep, then huffs out a sigh, parting his lips just enough to lick at your throat, split tongue lapping over your gills; it feels nice, but you know that he’s not nearly coherent enough after all that to offer up any sort of reciprocation.

 

You walk to your respiteblock and quirk your lips down when you notice the pile of blankets and pillows on the floor by the coon; resolutely, you kick them aside and tuck him into the slime, smoothing a sticky green hand over his forehead and daubing the material behind his ears and over his temples, a trick you learned that helps keep away more horrorterrors than usual. He’s out in moments, sleeping soundly, and you’re left alone to just… watch him, something you’re aware is probably creepy but it’s your house and your coon and your matesprit so fuck it.

 

Now, your only dilemma is this; do you take a cold shower, or do you take care of the wiggly thrashing in your pants?

 

 


End file.
